


I'm not just a fuck up, I'm the fuck up you love

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula E RPF
Genre: Bad Wine, M/M, Multi, grotty sex feels, houellebecq style wallowing, my tinder bio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He read about it on a gossip column, in the end. Which he hates himself for reading in the first place and triply because suddenly it all makes perfect sense that Dan texted him, out of the blue, two weeks previously. “Horner lets slip that Ricciardo single” is vastly too plausible to be discardable, especially with ‘hey, how are you anyway?’ in his troublingly recent inbox. Fuck’s sake.





	1. I may not ever get my shit together

**Author's Note:**

> This starts during Season 2 of Formula E/the 2016 Formula 1 season. It'll catch up. 
> 
> Thank you to SebAuRouge, ValentinesKid and lost-decade for as always cheering me on with this sordid nonsense. Titles from Don't Leave by Snakehips & MO.

Everything is always a gamble. And Jean-Eric knows full well his enthusiasm for risk-taking and inability to do anything by halves would have him on some tragic rehabilitation scheme within six months if he got into betting, so variable odds aren’t enough to put him off. 

He read about it on a gossip column, in the end. Which he hates himself for reading in the first place and triply because suddenly it all makes perfect sense that Dan texted him, out of the blue, two weeks previously. “Horner lets slip that Ricciardo single” is vastly too plausible to be discardable, especially with ‘ _ hey, how are you anyway?’  _ in his troublingly recent inbox. Fuck’s sake.

He doesn’t reply. He’s not  _ that  _ stupid - you do not enter the table not knowing who the other players are unless you’re a complete fucking idiot and he likes to think he’s made losses sufficient to have learnt from that, when it comes to literally anyone connected to Red Bull closer than, say, five police checkpoints and perhaps a few minor wars. 

So instead he corners his teammate and tells him that if they don’t get smashed as fuck in Mexico then he’s going to fucking send Heidfeld that photo of Sam licking a poster of him from 10 years ago. Good odds.

Which is how he ends up with two full glasses of wine, one of which is not the same colour as the half drunk one also in front of him, hoping he isn’t going to fall off his chair. Sam gets back from the bathroom in an ebulliently interrogative mood, which is unfortunate because JEV has just realised he might do some verbal vomiting before he gets to the actual throwing up bit and this is all adding up to bad things.

“Stop,” Sam says conversationally, “pining about that fuckin’ Aussie just because you can’t believe you shagged anyone who goes to Coachella.”

“I don’t  _ pine-” _

“Alright Sartre, fuckin’ writing poetry about him or whatever. What’s so bad about him anyway?”

JEV feels scandalised by the question. Also by himself. And by this shit that is purportedly a sauvignon blanc, which it certainly fucking doesn’t taste like as he necks the rest of the glass, slightly warm by the time he’s got it into his mouth. Daniel would probably love it.

Daniel likes shit things. Bad wine, crap beer,  _ terrible  _ music, awful people. Which makes it quite damning of Jev that Dan also - or at least once - really likes him. 

Jean-Eric isn't above thinking that, well, it might be a fair assessment because god so help him he's still so pathetically in love with Dan he can stand to watch him succeed, filthily wanking himself off in Ferrari gear when he really fucking hopes no one's looking for him. 

He attempts to explain this to Sam, which is difficult because he thinks he might be about 50% wine by now. “Sam, I can’t have him texting me out of the blue just because his dick is cold. I don’t want to admit I’m a booty call.”

“Oh mate, look. What's the big crisis then? You've been in love with him for years. Just fuck Di Grassi or something and get yourself over it.” Sam looks startlingly sympathetic for someone suggesting Jean-Eric gets into whatever kinky games the endurance lot are into. 

Jev’s mouth is not working as it should, which might be related to the wine he's just put some more of into it. Which is why he looks straight into Sam's eyes and whines “But I love him.” 

“Does… ok. Ok. So does he love  _ you?” _ it's not a question Jean-Eric’s broken heart can even contemplate. 

“I don't know.” Sam pats him on the hand slightly patronisingly. 

“OK, well, maybe this is your chance to find out.” He’s not sure he can articulate in English - or, frankly, any language at this point, that the risk that Dan does not love him back is too certainly non-zero for him to take this gamble, that there is nothing short of guaranteed odds that could ever let him go there because he’s so all-in on this he’d be destroyed. Send the mob bosses in to break his heart’s knees already. Shit, he’s drunk.

“Please stop looking like you’re going to cry, it’s making me feel like I ought to be emotionally supportive and I know you’ll be chatting shit about me as soon as you’re sober.” Sam pats him again, “You’re such a fuckin’ mess. It’s kind of reassuring.”

Reassuring who? And Jean-Eric is not the mess. Dan is the mess. He’s just the room the mess has been made all over. Ugh. Actually, he is nowhere near drunk enough for this, he might need to be clinically dead.

Jev wakes up pillowed on Sam's shoulder, both of them mercifully fully dressed. Sam’s nose is in his hair, one arm around his back and the other stretched across himself to pull Jean-Eric closer by his hip, like Sam had to wrestle him a bit to get him to lie down. He’s much too tall to curl round Sam this way, their legs slightly tangled and it’s not comfortable, jeans digging in mercilessly to his hungover bladder.

Sam nuzzles him, “Urgh, let’s never do that again.”

He definitely doesn’t feel any less like he wants to cry, rolling over to be closer to Sam and trying to ignore the fact he isn’t sure whether he wants to piss or vomit more. Sam shifts like he’s not especially pleased by this snuggly development and Jean-Eric really isn’t convinced he is, either but if he doesn’t cling to something, especially with the way the room is lurching around, he’s definitely going to drown in his own feelings.

“Jev. Jev, stop it.” He doesn’t. “Jev, we’re not doing this.” 

Sam gives him a shove and he whimpers pathetically because there’s not exactly any face left to lose when you’re disgustingly hungover and clinging to your teammate. Sam makes a deeply disgruntled noise and says “Ok fine, but go and brush your teeth first.”

Which is a fair comment because he’s pretty sure he threw up in the reasonably recent past, judging by the sickly acid taste in his saliva. Stumbling to the bathroom is a bit of a performance and he doesn’t so much brush his teeth as swill toothpaste around in his mouth, although the fact his toothbrush is here at least suggests they’re in  _ his  _ hotel room not Sam’s. 

Once he’s had a piss and made some vague attempt at splashing water on himself in a way he feels Sam might appreciate  because jesus  _ christ  _ he is disgusting right now but also he can’t stand how much of his heart he poured down the toilet last night and Sam is if not his first choice at least a safe one.

His teammate has kicked his jeans off by the time Jev gets back, is in the process of removing his shirt. “What? I said alright.”

Jean-Eric can’t look at him while he’s peeling his own clothes off, notices Sam leaves his fucking socks on and makes a mental note to remove them before they get down to anything serious. He decides not to be coy about it and digs a bottle of lube and a condom he really hopes is still vaguely in date out of his bag as he pads over to the bed, naked and feeling utterly terrible on any number of levels. 

Sam sighs at him, pushes him down onto the bed with two extremely firm hands on his shoulders. “Are we going to kiss? Or just do this?”

Jev closes his eyes and pretends he hasn’t heard the question or Sam’s follow up of “Alrighty then” because that’s just too awful and he needs to be allowed to die in some relative peace.

Sam nudges his legs apart and he  _ almost  _ protests that he’d assumed it’d be the other way around but actually this is probably for the best, Sam’s slick fingers working him open while Sam’s mouth kisses warmly over his dick and thighs. He can’t help the whimpering noises that he swears he’s never made during sex before but then the last time someone had their fingers inside him he’d been in love with them and even if Sam is markedly more skillful, the physical memory is like an ache in his balls.

Sam leans over him, kissing his chest up to his neck, murmurs, “Oh you  _ are  _ pretty like this.” It’s barely a compliment and Jean-Eric  _ knows  _ he’s being pathetic but he grabs at Sam, half-opens his eyes enough to pull him up and mash their mouths together, spreading his legs whorishly to let Sam finger him deeper. 

“Mmf, stop it - come on, let me get my dick in you.” Sam sounds kind, pushing Jean-Eric’s legs back as he pulls his fingers out and grabs for the condom packet. Jev takes the opportunity to look at him, kneeling up over him, sculpted muscle and soft, blonde hair fuzzing down to his decently-sized, throbbingly erect dick. At least he knows he’s still sexy, then. 

Sam doesn’t look at him as he leans fowards, guides his cock into him and Jean-Eric has to close his eyes again, grab at Sam’s shoulders as he pushes in. It’s not that it hurts - Sam was efficiently thorough at prepping him - it’s that the last dick inside him was Dan’s and he hadn’t realised how much it would overwhelm him to feel it again, someone entering him without all the precursory romance and desperation.

Well, some desperation still maybe. Sam stops, dips his head to kiss his neck, “You alright?”

Jev nods, rocks his hips just slightly because he doesn’t want to try to speak or have to explain what he’s feeling - which is a strange mix of sadness and arousal, like he’s losing his virginity all over again getting fucked by someone who isn’t Dan. And there’s a guilt attached to how good Sam feels inside him, how the gentle rhythm he sets up makes Jev want more.

“You’re good?” Sam thrusts a little harder and Jev wants him to  _ take  _ him, fuck Dan out of him, make him have all these fucking awful feelings he’s apparently got sloshing around him. And an orgasm. 

“Yes - please, more” Sam makes a slightly guttural noise in response, fucks him in earnest and Jev doesn’t want to do anything but hold on and get fucked through the mattress, Sam’s thrusts expert enough to hit the good spots better than Dan ever did, their teenage self-taught kama sutra barely running to ‘managing to have sex without some sort of incident.’

Sam knows how to fuck, though - it’s almost too much, feeling the stretch every time he thrusts and then the blossoming pleasure every time Sam hits his prostate. He wants his dick touched but there’s no way he can interrupt the stream of broken noises he’s making enough to ask for it and anyway he wants Sam to just fucking  _ do  _ him in every way. 

He clenches, squeezing a moan out of Sam and a grunted “God, fuck, do that again - oh god, you feel great.”

Sam’s appreciation spurs him on and he moves to meet every thrust, making it rougher and sloppier between them, Sam moaning against his neck, sucking a hickey he’ll massively regret into his collarbone.  Sam finally moves a hand down between them, strokes Jev’s dick and he thought for a second he’d immediately come until Sam’s  _ other  _ hand is in his hair and he can’t stop either the babble he really hopes doesn’t contain Dan’s name or the sudden tightening in his balls that leaves him panting and shaking against Sam, collapsing onto him after a few more thrusts to get through his own orgasm, still stroking Jev’s oversensitised dick.

They nuzzle each other for a sweaty few moments, Jev feeling Sam’s cock soften inside him. He feels weird, not just because the sensation immediately after getting fucked is a strange, slimy, still-pleasurable but gross one. Sam makes a weak effort to get off him, flops down again and tucks his head against Jean-Eric’s neck for a second, affectionate and a bit far-away before he pulls out and Jev curls over on himself, wondering for the billionth time this morning if he’s going to actually cry.

“I’m not sure I really like you getting me to do that, Jev.” Sam says, stroking his back. “I’m not some sort of sex therapist.”

“Shut up, I’m pretty sure you enjoyed it.” The now-unfamiliar stretched feeling definitely says Sam did. He feels slightly sore and still grottily hungover and he thinks he probably wants Sam to fuck him again, if he can convince him to - only kind of angrily, this time, from behind with a bit of light throttling. 

“Hmm.” It’s not quite the glowing review of sticking a dick in him that he was sort of half-hoping for. He wriggles round, tugs and wrestles at Sam until he can spoon him, which seems to placate the smaller man. Sort of.

“Ugh, you’re covered in come - god, Jev. Urgh.” Sam doesn’t make an effort to move out of his arms, sort of half-hugs the one Jean-Eric has over him and he feels a bit better for giving some comfort as well as taking it. “God, don’t make this a regular thing.”

Jev hums against the back of Sam’s neck, clutches him a bit. He feels empty and confused - he doesn’t want it to be a regular thing, either. He kind of wants it to be a thing that has never happened at all, the slickness down his asscrack feeling uncomfortable and as he tucks his knees into the back of Sam’s, grabs one of his ankles with his feet he realises his teammate does still have his fucking socks on. Christ.

They cuddle for a few minutes, not talking and deep in separate thoughts. Or well, Sam might be thinking about breakfast but Jev is thinking about how love is a fucking mug’s game and his arse aches and he badly wants someone to hold him later, when Sam’s gone and the temporary enjoyment of being physical with his teammate segues into the inevitable crushing sadness that that’s not Dan anymore. Never will be again.

He’d fucked Dany once, both of them drunk and the Russian clearly missing someone of his own. It had troubled him less to top and besides Dan was still around, they’d still been having occasional, intense breakup sex. It had unsettled him for weeks, though and now he’s dreading how badly he’s probably fucked himself up, unable to pretend he likes it casual but knowing, with the sort of certainty you can only really have about self-destruction, that he’s going to fuck a whole bunch of people. Not least himself.

His dick twitches at the thought - and the fact it’s up against Sam’s undeniably nice arse. Oh god, is he into the perpetually horny bit of being really miserable? Or just hungover, maybe. He shudders, curls close against Sam and whimpers a bit, so far past the shame threshold he can’t even be bothered to contain his neediness.

“Oh god, stop it - seriously. We can fuck in the shower and then it’s time to get you some carbohydrates and a fucking life.” Sam slaps his hand, makes to get up, then just twists round in Jev’s arms to grind up against him, “You are really quite sexy though, once you get the stupid scarf off.”

He sends Dan “ _ Yeah alright, busy - how are you?”  _

  
  
  



	2. ain't nobody gonna love you better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian ruffles his hair again and god can he just really, really not? “It’s best if you leave first. Don’t worry, Maurizio will be pleased.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: Jev is doing a bunch of sordid shit for largely unhealthy reasons here but he isn't being taken advantage of, he's just not bringing an amazing self-care game. So like, don't use this as a guide to life but it's also not anything bad happening to him.

Once he’s finished being the most hungover he’s ever been in his life, which takes about a week to fully clear, he’s on a plane to Melbourne with what could best be described as a head full of regrets. He’s going to have to see Dan. He’s going to have to see now-single, texting him Dan in Dan’s stupid home country and he can’t get the memory of Sam fucking his face in the shower out of his head enough to not feel like it’s written on his forehead.

The Ferrari red is not really helping, making him feel out of place - he’s not used to it, definitely not used to being sidelined in the Paddock and everything is still like an open wound every time he rocks up near the F1 circus. Fortunately he can now pair the frustration and pride-burning shame of getting dropped and being willing to do just about fucking anything to get it back, despite everything, with feeling exactly the same way about Daniel. So at least he’s optimised his emotional set-up.

Sebastian is polite enough to him while he’s hanging around the back of the garage trying not to feel like a petulant child. They haven’t really spoken for years and Jev’s halfway inclined to go and find Carlos or someone to chat to but he’s technically working, so just tries not to look to useless in any press shots and say nice things in Italian like a good boy, trying not to let the brain spiral take hold.

He manages to almost entirely avoid Daniel - or anyone with a Red Bull logo on - for the first 48 hours. He even copes with sending Daniil a not-entirely-the-right-side-of-friendly text about the bad luck side of the garage striking again, as the race starts. Dan knows he’s here, he liked his Instagram and Jean-Eric is pretty sure Daniel still has control of that, not entirely handed it over to his personal branding team or whatever the shit.

The idea of Daniel having a personal branding team is ridiculous. The man barely has a personal haircut. He has a massive over-fondness for blowing raspberries on the sensitive skin of people he likes. He’s sent Jev three texts that he hasn’t opened.

He lets himself slip into brooding, not really watching the race from the back of the garage. He’s refusing to take his jacket off, feeling weirdly self-conscious about how much his body’s changed since he was last in an F1 Paddock, even if it is entirely for the better. He knows he looks better now - Sam had got quite handsy in the shower, apparently deciding to turn things more sensual than functional as soon as their skin was slicked up, water droplets running across muscle as Jev had lifted him up to grind against the wall. 

Sam is puzzling. They both agreed it wasn’t a thing, had a cheery brunch where Sam hand-fed Jean-Eric croissant in a way he’d find completely offensive from anyone but the Brit but since Sam was sitting on his lap to do it it seemed somehow more reasonable. Now they’ve gone back to normal, in the sense Jev is still hopelessly moping about Dan and Sam is off fucking Bruno Senna or whatever it is he does. He’s trying to convince himself not to add to his emotional problems by getting jealous about that.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, deep in thought, when a mechanic shoves past him to get an extra wrench or something. Oh yes, he’s at a Grand Prix. Maybe he should read Dan’s texts.

Jean-Eric watches the screens blankly for the first lap, shifting uncomfortably on sneakered feet that are a frustrating reminder of the fact he’s not in race boots. God, everything’s awful - he’s in this shitty Ferrari garage, trying not to add to his overwhelmingly horrible and selfish feelings by thinking about Jules, being a miserable fuck. And really what the fuck does he have to complain about? 

Sufficiently peer-harassed by his own thoughts, he digs his phone out and opens the messaging app. And he shouldn’t be holding his breath because this is going to be such a let down, either in terms of awfulness or amazingness and he virtually could have predicted what it said anyway because this is  _ Dan - _

_ Hey mate coool you’re here wanna grab dinner _

_ Weird seeing you and Seb in red still _

_ Fuck me this engine is shit again. Do you want a beer later? Fuck up the winter training lol _

He resists the brief, hot urge to text back that he’s been fucking racing all winter you sanctimonious top team F1 fuckbag. That probably won’t help anything, least of all himself so he just lets it burn through him, a flash of jealous fury he can’t cope with because Dan is supposed to be nice to him.

Dan is supposed to be understanding about it and stand by him and take care of Jean-Eric and be on his fucking side and know about his life. He’s not supposed to have had more congratulatory texts for Formula E podiums from Hamilton than the love of his fucking life.

Christ, that’s miserable. He shuffles further back into the garage, as though he can hide from even being at the Grand Prix at all, hoisting himself onto a cabinet at the back to huddle shittily under Vettel’s name - his usual position in Formula 1, even a less bitter man than himself would observe. And in Daniel’s affections, of course.

It’s too much. Maybe taking this role at Ferrari was stupid but it seemed like the best chance to cling to so many things he’s psychologically fragile about. 

He settles in to brood away the rest of the race nursing his injured feelings, his stupid, flimsy pride that he didn’t even know he’d left so open for Daniel to swipe at, clumsy and blundering. He wants Dan back so much it’s fucking stupid and probably not even about the Australian - he just wants someone to care about him when he’s having a shit time, such as right now. Maybe he’s not even in fucking love with Dan. 

Except Jev’s angry right now so it’s easy not to love Daniel, the white hot rage and embarrassment curling around his brain like a resentful cat tucking in on itself. In two days time he’ll be back to pathetically wishing he could see the Australian, livid with himself that he wasted the chance in Melbourne. 

Making the first pathetic move to go and seek out Dan, in his different team gear, feeling like an absolute prick, is too much for him though. He should text back. He really should. He doesn’t - in fact, he doesn’t even look at his phone for the rest of the race, suddenly distracted into far less teenage and much sadder preoccupations when he sees Gutierrez and Alonso collide and feels like every drop of blood in his body has turned into icy sludge.

He doesn’t really notice it ending, until Sebastian’s side of the garage are suddenly celebrating around him and he feels the strong urge to slip away into the motorhome, find somewhere quiet to sit and have what he realises is a panic attack much too late to stop it. He pushes into a room and shakily gets to the sofa, curling in a foetal position and feeling freezing cold, numb and so full of adrenaline it’s like he’s necked half his old sponsor’s annual output, heart pounding like a warning klaxon.

Jev probably should have checked whose or what room it was, before he decided to use it as his personal emotion-hole but he feels like that’s not something most people would begrudge him, even if Britta does look surprised to find him on the sofa. He tries to say something explanatory, fails at more than a few noises. She gives him a sympathetic look at closes the door, says sometime he doesn’t catch, to someone outside, just as the catch clicks into place. 

He ought to leave but he feels too shitty and overwhelmed, still freezing cold. If he could get himself together enough to text Dan then he wouldn’t even feel ashamed about it, desperately needing a hug. 

Jean-Eric’s just about mentally righted himself enough to be able to get the passcode into his phone on the third try when Sebastian walks in, justifiably startled to find Jev in the room. Oh, yeah - that would make sense, with Britta being there earlier. He feels sort of dazed, the panic having subsided into an insulated numbness like the adrenaline rush had shut down substantial bits of his brain for awhile.

Sebastian looks understandably confused and Jean-Eric cannot for the life of him think of a remotely plausible reason for him being in there, somehow doesn’t want to admit to Vettel that the crash had shaken him up and also desperately not wanting to think about it again. So he does what any third driver does under the circumstances - presumably a podium deserves a celebration, right - and slides onto his knees, tries to make his expression much softer than he feels. 

“Oh.” Sebastian blushes, “I didn’t know… well, thank you.” Jev’s left thigh is annoyingly twitching, like it’s a friend trying to tug him out of this situation before he makes a series of stupid decisions but listen here, thigh, Jean-Eric is an adult with adult needs and in this case those are to do some emotional self-harm to help himself get rid of some feelings without actually having to think too much.

Sebastian strokes his face much more fondly than he ever remembers them interacting and Jean-Eric kind of wonders who Vettel’s really thinking about, as he reaches for the German’s thermals and pulls them down enough to get his lips against Seb’s dick. 

Seb pushes Jev’s hat off, so he can pet his hair and it’s one of Jean-Eric’s number one turn-offs when giving head so this is already going extremely badly, which is exactly how he wants it right now. Sebastian’s dick tastes disgusting, the inevitable result of several hours in a Formula 1 car and Jev feels like he’s choking on the pheremone-heavy sweat scent as Seb’s cock hardens until it hits the back of his throat.

He’s got his eyes closed and he doesn’t want to look up at Sebastian. This is so fucked up - he’d fucking hated the guy for taking Daniel away from him and winning fucking everything and being an asshole and now Jean-Eric’s trying to suck him down hard enough to get rid of the lump in his throat. 

Seb grunts and thrusts a little into his mouth “Mmm, Jean-Eric, I’m glad I asked for you on the team.” God this is - he’d wanted this to be awful but this is beyond awful. Seb thinks he’s blowing him out of gratitude? He ought to check in with LeClerc and find out what the fuck goes on here, he’d just assumed it would be so straightforward in comparison to Red Bull that it hadn’t even occurred to him to sniff out the fucked up shit.

Well, he can certainly smell it now, nose buried in Seb’s pubes. His own dick is much more interested in the fact he’s got a cock in his mouth than he really honestly wants it to be - Sebastian doesn’t know this is kind of kinky, he thinks Jev’s just sucking him off like a good little reserve or maybe that Jev’s always had a secret crush on him or something and somehow that makes it even better, that Jean-Eric is just sado-masochistically dominating himself via Sebastian’s body.

He gags, breathing clumsily as Seb tugs on his hair, stroking his cheek to feel his own dick in Jean-Eric’s mouth. He hates the hair-tug - he doesn’t need any further risk of it falling out, thanks but the idea that Vettel’s getting off on how he looks is a nasty turn-on, making him hold the hand he doesn’t have on Seb’s hip to his own crotch, heel of his palm pressing almost too hard.

Seb rocks his hips, moans as he chokes Jean-Eric a bit again and Jev’s pretty sure he’s close - he feels like he’s drowning in his own saliva and Sebastian is just straight-up fucking his face at this point and there’s a sort of lack of finesse to it that suggests Seb’s past the point of coherent thought. It’s too hot, with his face mashed into Seb’s crotch and his nose is running in a way he’d find horrifying if this wasn’t all completely disgusting anyway. 

“Unnh-” Seb pulls his hair harder, forces Jean-Eric’s mouth down his dick and comes straight down the back of his throat, Jev trying not to whimper or gargle too badly. He’s sort of stunned, after - realises he must have actually been choking quite badly, something a little fuzzy around the edges of his vision like the time he’d collapsed from dehydration. Sebastian pulls his dick back, although not totally out of Jev’s mouth, stroking his face and encouraging him to lick him through a few aftershocks while Seb’s mumbling at him in Italian.

“Bravo, bravo ragazzo,” Seb looks very fond - it’s making his skin crawl and his dick twitch. “How come I never knew this when we were at Red Bull?”

Jean-Eric tries not to totally splutter a reply, pulling his mouth back and swallowing down saliva still, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, ineffectually. “Different times.”

Sebastian ruffles his hair again, “Such a talented driver, they wasted you.”

Jean-Eric tries not to wonder exactly what Vettel means by that because all of the options are fairly creepy, in context. He’s just thinking he should get up and go and wank off in the bathroom or something when Seb crouches down in front of him, puts his hands straight on Jean-Eric’s waist, pushing his jacket up. 

“You’re part of the team, now” Oh god, he really wasn’t expecting this - Sebastian doesn’t kiss him but he does push him back until he’s sprawled against the sofa and can mercifully hide his face in the seat cushion because he  _ knows  _ he’s doing that slightly wild-eyed thing people are so keen to turn into fucking memes.

Seb strokes his face again, where he’s pressing it into the couch and murmurs “ _ cosi bello”  _ \- if everyone could stop calling him pretty, things would be going a lot better, Jev feels. He’s kind-of-turned-on, kind-of-just-full-of-adrenaline and feeling slutty, not really willing to do anything more than slightly hate himself for enjoying whatever Sebastian’s about to do to him. 

The German’s fingers are working his belt open, stroking over Jev’s waist and stomach which is the kind of thing he’d really rather people didn’t do because his relationship to his own body has always been a bit difficult and it feels too intimate for a handjob in a motorhome.  He startles himself with the noise he makes by the time Seb gets a hand in his underwear, the other touches having oversensitised him - he doesn’t really want to get wanked off by Seb, he want’s to make love with Dan but one of those isn’t an available option and the other very much appears to be happening so here he is. 

Sebastian’s hand feels good enough anyway - the calluses are familiar to the point where he can pretend for a few seconds that it’s someone else’s and as confused as he is about the way he feels about the German, there’s an annoying driver thing about the fact a four-time world champion is wanking him off. 

Seb sort of purrs at him when he arches his back, picks up the pace and Jev’s just heading into the really frantically pleasant part of an orgasm build up, feeling distinctly disgusting and also like he wants Daniel to fucking know when someone knocks on the door and someone’s saying something in Italian and  _ shit  _ it is Arrivabene.

He realises he’s opened his eyes in panic when he registers Sebastian is silently laughing at him, looking affectionately amused. “ _ Dieci minuti” _ \- Seb squeezes his dick as he shouts back and Jev is… he has lost his edge for this. Sebastian strokes his face again, which is about the only thing that could make his dick soften faster than the idea his new boss is outside the door and he feels the blush rising because it’s embarrassing enough being wanked off by a four-time world champion who just fucked your face let alone not being able to maintain an erection while doing so.

“Sorry, uhm.” He can’t think of a word to describe “I can’t get myself off about the weird kink thing I secretly had going on here now I’ve realised Maurizio is hanging around and everything feels unpleasantly real and professional rather than the sort of unhinged space I’d worked myself into, please stop touching my penis and let me die here.”

Seb smiles gently at him and god, is the face-stroking something he’s really into or something? Jean-Eric’s cheeks feel like they’re burning already, he doesn’t want to be petted. “You’re shy.”

He’s… he’s not really. Probably. He kind of is sometimes, maybe. In fact that’s possibly why he was hiding in this room in the first place but he’s not like… a blushing virgin or something. He grunts and wriggles backwards, away from Sebastian’s hands, so he can tuck himself back into his underwear at least.

Sebastian ruffles his hair again and god can he just really, really not? “It’s best if you leave first. Don’t worry, Maurizio will be pleased.”

Jesus. Jesus, he needs to get out of the whole Ferrari complex extremely fast. This is exactly the sort of thing he hates and he’d been feeling so much less hideously overcrowded by life recently, even if he has been a bit lonely. God, is Formula 1 just really fucked up? He’s absolutely certain it’s not him, it’s them - ok he may have hangover-screwed Sam but that’s just two people who know each other just about well enough for that sort of thing drinking too much wine, not the apparent structural assumption that he’s going to suck dick in return for being allowed to touch the car enviously sometimes.

He half-stumbles to his feet, feeling deeply like an idiot and endures a little more petting from Sebastian before he can get out the door, try to walk in some fashion that says he  _ definitely  _ hasn’t just been shagged as he refuses to make eye contact with anyone and tries to remember where the Paddock bar is in Melbourne. 

His mouth tastes of dick, which is really not that surprising but he urgently needs to put something else in it to get rid of the flavour and he feels like he’s breathing clouds of semen. Everything is the worst. 

He brushes past Daniil on the concourse, who half-says something to him but he’s  _ really  _ not in the mood for that and also if Dany caught him with cock-breath he’d probably never deal with living it down. He’s the grown-up, classy one - his former teammate is the balcony-shagging Milton Keynes bicycle hire scheme. 

Or well, he does seem to be somewhat sabotaging his own record lately but he’s still not having it. Except - oh - what Daniil was presumably trying to say to him was that Dan was just behind him and isn’t this a day for wonderful surprise interactions. 

Jean-Eric stops dead, stares at Daniel. He looks beautiful, of course - more tanned than ever and he’s let his hair grow back to some curls, the way Jean-Eric used to like it when he could stroke his fingers through them, Dan lying against his shoulder. He’s grinning and it’s not the shit-eating grin he just slaps on normally, it’s the one he has when he looks at Jean-Eric and it’s been years since that was uncomplicated, since Dan looked at him with all his emotions so surface-level and open. 

“Mate! I was wondering where you were-” Dan goes straight in for a hug, of course he does and Jev buries his mouth against the Red-Bull team shirt over his shoulder, tries not to breathe too much. Dan is warm and muscular and as perfect as they’ve ever fitting together against him. He desperately wants to not be wearing his jacket, so they could press up against each other closer but also he wants this not to be happening at all, this is the  _ worst  _ timing and he’s so vulnerable and he’s got Sebastian’s spunk in his mouth.

He can’t stop himself wrapping his arms around Dan and this is much too long a hug for public but they were never all that appropriate and he could be congratulating Daniel, after all. Dan’s hands are across his back, holding him close and soothing and he could forgive the Australian everything right now, every time he’s fucked Jean-Eric’s head up, all the years of occupying so much mental energy and the betrayal that he didn’t even care when it mattered. 

“Gotta go mate, see you later” - Dan pulls back, looking in his eyes while Jean-Eric tries not to smile in a way that involves his mouth opening. 

The Australian never reappears. He ends up drinking a few beers with Carlos - neither enough to anaesthetise himself nor so little he doesn’t feel a bit dizzy by the time he ends up in bed, staring at the ceiling for restless hours that are probably just jet lag. Of the heart.


	3. shut your mind off and let your heart breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now Jean-Eric’s started sleeping with other people he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. He goes out for a perfectly innocent catch-up dinner with Loic Duval and somewhere halfway through the meal he realises he’s whining about Dan and Loic’s toes are rubbing against his ankle and he’s so absolutely certain he’s going to end up in Duval’s bed that Jev might as well have stripped off there and then and let him fuck him over the dessert.

Now Jean-Eric’s started sleeping with other people he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. He goes out for a perfectly innocent catch-up dinner with Loic Duval and somewhere halfway through the meal he realises he’s whining about Dan and Loic’s toes are rubbing against his ankle and he’s so absolutely certain he’s going to end up in Duval’s bed that Jev might as well have stripped off there and then and let him fuck him over the dessert.

Instead they tumble into Jev’s flat, which actually is much worse than the risk anyone might even care who they are enough to comment on some public sodomy so long as they cleared the plates away first. This is not, in any way, about each other - they’re both missing other people and want comfort - and Jev almost laughs at the parallels; calm, serious Loic pining for furious, passionate Lucas and then there’s him, Monsieur Crise Existentielle, sad because Dan smiled at him genuinely. 

It’s not frantic - they end up blowing each other, curled around like a yin-yang and Loic’s mouth feels incredible, sucking him so deep he nearly feels like he could lose himself in Duval’s expert ministrations. He doesn’t even mind when Loic pulls his dick out of Jev’s mouth, rolls him backwards and tongues at Jean-Eric’s asshole until he’s whimpering and begging to get fucked. 

He does very vaguely object to being played open under Loic’s mouth and fingers until he comes on himself, hands clinging to the sheets and back arching ineffectually, pinned under the other driver. But it feels so great he doesn’t care and also, despite everything, he’s 25 - he can go again. And does, Loic’s dick hitting his prostate so expertly, forcing Jean-Eric into the mattress with his weight while he relentlessly works his cock until Jev is an oversensitised, overstimulated mess and just lies there trembling, face down on his sheets in the aftermath, physically and mentally pulled apart, like an intense race that ends in a satisfying podium. 

He nicks a few drags off Loic’s menthol cigarette - a habit Jev  _ knows  _ he picked up off the endurance lot. He thought about it, after F1 but everything about that Paddock feels too… something. Old school, maybe - he’d got a bit used to being the stuck-in-the-mud one with the caffeine edgelords, he’s not sure he actually knows how to behave.

They end up wrapped in dressing gowns on the balcony - Jev not sure he wants to tell Loic he’s wearing his ex-girlfriend’s but the grey silk suits Duval and why the hell does Jean-Eric have that still lying around anyway. 

“So your Daniel - you will get him back?” 

Jean-Eric glares at him. Fucking hell, Loic - this was nice, purgative. But Duval looks insecure, as stirred up as Jev felt after he slept with Sam and so he gets up, “We need the brandy for this.”

When he resettles, Loic lighting two cigarettes and passing one to him as he fills glasses he’s just been hit by the blinding revelation probably no 25-year-old who’s desperately in love with the kind of idiot who listens to Parkway Drive should own. The cut glass on the tumblers has a green tinge to it, which neither compliments the golden slickness of the brandy nor belongs in this century but it had reminded him of Dan - something a little marine about it, surf photos and sunshine. 

Jev realises he’s staring into a glass and ignoring what Loic is saying to him on the third repetition, “Hey, I said you know you’re still young, there will be others.”

Loic looks kind. Everyone’s been looking way too kind, lately - maybe it’s why he’s being so deliberately foul to himself. He deal with self-care in the face of adversity but if everyone’s going to treat him like he’s soft he’ll fuck himself up just to show them all. 

He realises he’s frowning at Loic and possibly that’s not quite the right response because he would quite like to be held later and Loic’s current lack of clothing suggests that’s not off the cards. “It’s still… What’s even your problem with Lucas?”

Loic shrugs, “I’m not meant to be in love with him, really.”

Jean-Eric considers this for a minute, swilling brandy in the stupid sea-green glass. Maybe that’s his problem, too - Daniel’s altogether too easy to fall in love with, he’s not the first and won’t be the last and given that, he’s got a lot more from him than most. There’s been a cruel satisfaction in watching Dany succumb, knowing Dan’s never going to go there. Or at least, Jev hypocritically hopes he isn’t.

“How come?” He can’t really imagine why, Loic and Lucas always seemed quite stable - grown up and equanimous whichever series they were in. Jev was a little jealous in a weird way - it’d be nice to have a crush on someone who cares that fucking much about the category he’s ended up in, even if Lucas is way too intellectual for him. He likes feeling like the smart one, sue him.

“We’re just meant to be teammates, it’s good, it’s not meant to really mean much.” Loic’s shrug is so gallic Jean-Eric actually feels vaguely emasculated from his own nationality.

“But it does?” He doesn’t know why he’s pushing. Loic doesn’t have to tell him anything. 

“Yeah, of course.” Loic exhales, stubs the cigarette out on the balcony railing and grins very brightly, a little aggressively at him, “You know this.”

Jean-Eric swallows. He has to stop telling everyone he knows that he’s a heartbroken idiot. “Bed?”

Loic stretches his long legs out, looks up into the night sky. “I should get off.”

Jean-Eric doesn’t want to beg, braces himself for the fact he’s going to be miserable in sheets that smell like sex. Loic is in his thirties, he reasons - he doesn’t need Jev’s borderline-teenage bullshit, they were only meant to be having dinner - it isn’t Duval’s fault he’s incapable of keeping his legs closed.

Loic pauses in the process of getting up, gives him a scrutinising look as though he’s weighing things in the back of his mind. When he finally stands, he downs his brandy before speaking, his tongue darting out to lick the burning sweetness off his top lip first.

“I could stay - but I want to watch you make yourself come.”

Jev feels a flush of something, under Loic’s gaze - they’ve always had a platonic relationship, up until now and this is something quite different, he’s not used to being desired this way. He thinks it’s probably Loic experimenting too - although he’s not really sure in what way.

“Ok.” He feels kind of small and naive suddenly, takes Loic’s outstretched hand to help himself up and into his own frickin’ flat. Obviously he touches himself all the time - he’s even wanked in front of other people before, once straddling Dan’s lap and letting the Australian hold him, hands almost cradling Jev while he showed off, letting Dan know how much he fancied him. 

He doesn’t want to think of that right now, as Loic leads him back into his stupid, bohemian apartment and Jev tries not to suddenly feel massively self-conscious about how fucking performative he is. From the battered Houellebecq paperbacks alongside Senna biographies to his ridiculous solid oak bedframe - great for athletic fucking and the smell of warm wood sap on a hot day, useless for tying anyone up. He has a stupid minimalist coffee table with a photobook on it. He’d never actually consciously noticed how much he was turning himself into a parody-grade illustration, a cartoon of the driver just a little too intellectual to be truly successful, a security blanket made of vinyl jazz records.

Loic pushes the dressing gown off him, “Kneel on the bed - the way the streetlight shines through the window makes you look beautiful.”

Jev tries not to be too awkward or stumble on the mattress, looking down himself to see the stripes of the iron window casing of the door still open to the balcony cross his skin like a cage. Yellow light and deep shadows are making this all seem less real, a tiger-pattern of sleazy bravery falling across him as Loic settles in the wicker chair he got from an antiques shop in Nantes because of course he friggin did.

The thought gives him an idea - he doesn’t want to think of Dan but he needs  _ some  _ kind of fantasy to distract himself into doing this. 2014, Hungary - he should’ve been celebrating with Dan but he just… couldn’t. They’d been on the rocks for awhile, Jean-Eric’s hopes fading and seeing Daniel take a race win was a little more than he could bear to love him through.

Lewis, of all people, had come to congratulate him - a points finish, a good race, just nothing that could do anything to save him at this point. A podium - fuck, the top step, might not have made a difference, really. Hamilton had always been kind of friendly; fun, small, argumentative - on a losing streak of sorts himself most of the time Jean-Eric had been in F1. 

And the guy undoubtedly knew how to kind of resent someone you love - steering Jev away from the more emotionally complicated party as soon as seemed reasonable, earnestly embracing Jev and telling him with such absolute faith that Lewis  _ knew  _ he’d get through whatever was about to happen and come out on top. How getting dropped doesn’t mean it’s over, hands on Jev’s skinny waist and smile way too bright. 

He closes his eyes, traces his fingers along his own hip, threading through his pubes to his cock like he’s following a trail not doing something he’s done a million times. His fingers brush his dick and he’s being much more sensual than he normally would be, listening desperately for any reaction from Loic, while trying not to imagine he’s in the room at all, instead thinking of a gap between two motorhomes years ago.

Lewis had wound up against him, one hand on the back of Jean-Eric’s neck and he’d been genuinely shocked because what the fuck but Hamilton looked genuine, had taken off the ever-present sunglasses and hooked them into his t-shirt to gaze up at Jev. 

He’d thought for a minute they’d fuck, that Lewis would bend him over something and call him Nico or something. Instead Hamilton had quietly put his head against Jean-Eric’s shoulder and he’d realised he should move his hands, scoop Lewis up in his arms like a girlfriend. 

Their bodies had been warm and close against each other, the Hungarian air dropping chill after dark. Jev could feel his own pulse pound unreasonably across his collarbone, throat feeling slightly too tight as Lewis draped himself on him. Technically, nothing had happened - he’d felt like Hamilton was giving him the choice; they could embrace like racers with respect for each other or they could take things a little further than that.

There’d been a few breathless minutes, trying not to move too much or startle the man out of his arms - Lewis fitting so comfortably against him as he felt their bodies almost meld, sharing breathing and pulse and heat. It had startled him so much everything had been more sensual, the line of Hamilton’s jeans against his hips a sharp dig, the feel of their thighs almost tangling and his stomach against Lewis’, their hands on each other. 

Lewis’ arm, flung round his shoulder, had felt like an anchor and Jev wasn’t sure if he was the port or the storm but Hamilton had been tracing his fingers through the hair at the back of Jean-Eric’s neck, light enough to make him shudder. In the present, his hand stutters on his cock, remembering how hesitant he’d been and how achingly hard. 

He hears Loic’s breath catch, “Go on.”

Opening his eyes for a second he can see that Loic isn’t touching himself, is lying sprawled in the chair with his hands on the arms, as though to remind himself not to even palm his own dick. It’s elegant - the room is in a sort of shadowy twilight and every beautiful angle of Loic’s face is emphasised, his lips a dark stain of shadow across the pout. It makes Jean-Eric look down at himself again, at the way the knuckles of his hand are illuminated, the glint of light off the precome at the head of his dick, the dark stripes of shadow across his thighs.

Loic licks his lips when Jev looks up again and he has to look away - Dan used to look at him with heat sometimes, of course and sometimes like he loved him, soft and open and adoring but he’s never really had anyone look at him quite like this, as though he’s a work of art. He closes his eyes again, sinks back into the memory.

Lewis had pressed a little closer, like he’d been just making sure Jev knew what he was offering and Jean-Eric was just relieved his hands didn’t tremble, trailing fingers down Lewis’ spine. Lewis had shivered and turned his face up and for a few tantalising seconds Jean-Eric had thought he was brave enough to do it, to take this, to give up on salvaging him and Daniel and aim for something bigger and more terrifying.

Instead it was a moment missed, Lewis stepping back a few seconds later - they’d just chatted in the hotel bar until it was so late the rest of the party joined them and Daniel had been so brimming with victory that Jev hadn’t been able to resist falling into bed with him, as though he was the actual reason for the joyful kisses being showered across him. 

He moves his hand again - this is the point in the memory that’s familiar, pushing his hips up into his own grip because he’d rolled around with Dan, made love and let Daniel fall asleep on him, then waited just long enough to pad off to the bathroom. Leaning against the cool tiles, eyes closed and trying not to hiss where the glass of the mirror chilled his shoulders he’d made himself come over what could have been.

That kind of wank calls for the full self-pleasure, touching yourself in ways you never normally would - he raises a hand to trace the back of his neck, in imitation of Lewis’ fingers years ago. It makes him shiver as he trails the fingertips down over his own collarbone, feeling the pulse across his throat and drawing them down his stomach the way he imagines Lewis would have touched him, intense and considered and not-quite-teasing.

When he reaches his dick he dips lower, letting his other hand carry on jerking himself while his fingers trace over the sensitive skin of his balls, gasping at the feeling. He knows it would have been sensual, wouldn’t have even minded Lewis getting his fingers in his hair, knowing he would have been gentle with Jev in a way his lovers haven’t always been. He enjoys a little kink, of course but he hates it when people do things he doesn’t expect, can’t react to.

The sex would have been put together like a perfect lap, every sense alive with it and working in synchrony. He whines - a little bit for Loic as much as himself - as he adds a twist to the way he’s stroking himself. Lewis would’ve fucked him like an engine he was coaxing the most out of - or maybe he would’ve fucked Lewis, a thought that makes him moan and speed up his hand, grabbing at his own thigh with blunt fingernails for more sensation. 

He never could have told Dan, except in the heat of a furious row when they were both trying to hurt each other and the white-hot spike of jealousy would have been too sweet, too tempting to resist. He arches his back, imagining Lewis underneath him, squeezing tight like he imagines he’d feel around Jev’s dick - fuck, fuck, he should’ve just gone for it, licked salty hickeys into Hamilton’s collarbone for Rosberg to furiously uncover days later, light shadows on the dark caramel of his skin.

He nearly falls backwards, collapsing into a sitting kneel as he gets close, too close to not curl in on himself slightly, hair flopping sweatily across his face and it’s the idea of Lewis looking up at him, pushing it back from his forehead that finally tips him over, breathing like the roar of an engine in his ears. He whines again, working himself through it more than he normally would because  _ fuck  _ he just wanked off to Hamilton in front of Loic and is this actually what he’s doing, now?

The bed dips in front of him and he opens his eyes to Loic cradling his face, drawing him in for a kiss, “My god, you’re beautiful.”

He can’t help blushing - Loic looks like a model for fuck’s sake. And he’s still panting a little, breathless not from exertion but the thrill of what he just did to himself. 

Loic draws him down, lays him out beneath him and for a second Jean-Eric thinks he’ll fuck him again, feels debauchedly aroused at the idea but Loic just tucks against him, drawing the sheet over them and spooning him loosely.

Jev can feel himself starting to drift - the meal and sex and brandy all hitting him amidst the deep comfort of cool air over the sheet, drying the sweat soaking his fringe and the reassuring heat of Loic’s body against his back. Loic is bigger, more muscled, stronger-feeling than most people he’s been in bed with and he’s not too proud to say it isn’t extremely pleasant, as his eyelashes fall down to his cheeks and he hopes he looks half as pretty as Duval seems to think he is.

He’s just falling into a deeply comfortable sleep when Loic whispers “You weren’t thinking of Daniel, were you?”

Jev doesn’t dream that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering about the Lewis thing, they used to be really rather pally - here's said Hungarian GP:


	4. no, I won't trade this for nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He ends up, via some sponsor and promotion faffing, talking to an entirely different Daniel in a bar. He really needs to stop doing this but also why not, really? Abt is cute and maybe exactly the kind of uncomplicated stupidity he can confirm he doesn’t really want in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank u various absolute ledges who I've forced to read this in its various states. <33333

Loic gives completely incredible back rubs. It feels like the sort of important information he should save for use at a future time, as though he’s been on some justifiable reconnaissance mission not slutting it up. Skilled thumbs working away tension knots he didn’t even know he’d been holding in his shoulders, hadn’t realised that one bit of his neck was tight again

Long Beach comes and goes largely without incident, except the bullshit that he’s started getting serious fed up by. Loic is as blandly friendly as he usually is in the Paddock, no hint of what happened or - as Jean-Eric’s more paranoid 3am ceiling-staring sessions feared - that he’s been telling everyone what Jev looks like when he’s jerking himself off. He’s feeling a little insecure and hungry for company still but your teammate on pole when you’re having a shocker is no one’s favourite option, no matter how nice Sam is.

America is weird, anyway. Long Beach is no place to be in a not-exactly-deflated-but-empty mood; it’s too vapid and wafty to be carrying about a void in yourself without the sense things might be seeping into it like a lingering perfume. He’s looking forward to Paris - and frankly, next year, something just not sitting right like his skin’s the wrong size and how on earth has he ended up in another car that mandates borderline-starvation?

He’s bored, possibly. Which is how he ends up texting Daniel, having decided he’s being childish about things at some point on the flight. It’s innocent - “ _ Good luck, have fun x” -  _ he means it, he hopes Daniel does well. He drops virtually the same message to Lewis, a little out of the blue but, well, Jean-Eric has been thinking of him, albeit in ways he’s not likely to divulge any decade soon.

They get dragged to the beach for some filming, which is actually fun and he forgets to feel strangely out of sorts for a bit, with the wind in his hair and ridiculously beautiful people all over the place because it’s silly but Sam makes everything feel less ridiculous and it’s not like he hasn’t had to do far stupider things for Red Bull. They stop for coffee after and he tries to ignore the earnestly worried looks Sam keeps giving him or the rather fond hand-rub when his teammate hands him his espresso. He’s  _ fine.  _

Daniel doesn’t text him back until the Sunday. Lewis replied almost instantly with ‘ _ thanks man, you too. God bless. L x’  _  - not a surprise really, Hamilton can’t possibly have that big an entourage by being in the habit of ignoring people. Or maybe he has someone to do his WhatsApp for him these days and they felt like being nice to Jev.

Daniel’s text is weirder, in that he feels like it ought to bother him. He’s sulking in the sun having an extended breakfast after a fairly shitty Saturday when he gets it - can’t work out where the time difference puts Dan at or if there was a lag on it sending. 

“ _ Hey dude, how you doing? Everything here is as shit as always lol. Weird fucking life.”  _ Is… a non-sequitur. Daniel probably forgot Jean-Eric was racing this weekend, in the middle of it all. Which he kind of really cares about and doesn’t - it’s a horrible confirmation of everything he feared and also maybe a break. He can drag his own heartbreak along in the tow of Daniel’s turbo-charged ignorance.

He ends up, via some sponsor and promotion faffing, talking to an entirely different Daniel in a bar. He really needs to stop doing this but also why not, really? Abt is cute and maybe exactly the kind of uncomplicated stupidity he can confirm he doesn’t really want in his life.

“I just think - in five years - this is going to be so huge, you know? Like anyone who wasn’t here, now, is going to look like such an idiot. I’m really fucking looking forward to it,” Abt smiles toothily, “Gonna be fucking satisfying watching them eat it.”

Jev can’t really entirely be bothered with this conversation because it’s too warm and he’s not sure he’s as certain as Daniel about the imminency of anyone in F1 begging to suck his dick, as appealing as the thought is. “I don’t know if they’d ever admit it, it’s not what they do.”

Daniel snorts, “Dude they won’t be admitting it, they’ll be being run over by it. They’ll be being dragged through the streets on it,” the grin has turned feral, “It’s gonna be sweet as.’

Jean-Eric feels some kind of yawning demographic gap across the early 90s. But maybe this will be good for him, the shock of the new and all. “How long are you in California?”

“Oh, fuck knows, my phone tells me when I need to get the plane pretty much, you know? I gave up trying to follow it years ago. Thank fuck for mobile boarding passes, honestly. But I think, like, Tuesday? How long are you here? You working on that surf look you’ve got going on?” Daniel talks without pausing for a breath, excitable and punctuated more with hand gestures than linguistically recognised inflection.

Jean-Eric tries to rearrange his face into the smile that he knows people find inviting, the slight softening of his features that Dan always looked most in love with. “A little longer, yes.”

He sips his drink, Daniel having apparently briefly run out of things to talk fast about, staring out across the water for a pregnant second of noise from the bar and of a moth meeting a fluttering, acrid demise on one of the lamps. Jev decides to stop pretending what they’re doing.

“Would you like to come back to mine?” He tries to make his voice huskier than the beer he’s sipping really wants to let it be.

Daniel looks at him quite bright-eyed, “Oh yeah man, you hosting the after-party? Never seen you go out before, let’s do it sure yeah.”

Jev smiles again, knowing it’s the slightly roguish one that he considers his ‘move’ - “Not everyone - just you.”

Daniel looks confused for a moment, like he’s trying to work out how a party of two people would happen and struggling with the mathematics. Then his eyes go very wide for a second and he laughs, giggling, “Oh -  _ oh  _ \- oh no dude, I’m not into guys but like thank you for the offer.”

Jean-Eric feels his insides churn like they are trying to escape -  _ fuck,  _ he was so certain of that one. He’s much more cautious than he’s been behaving but so many people had known about himself and  _ his  _ Daniel, in the end, that so long as someone came to him then the risk wasn’t there. But it’s still this world and this bullshit and  _ fuck,  _ Abt looks like he’s fucked everyone from GP3 to Endurance and back again, for god’s sake. 

“It’s weird isn’t it? Everyone seems to think I do. I don’t mind it, it’s just not what I’m into - like, I know Lucas is hot for a dude because fucking hell my last girlfriend would not  _ stop  _ mentioning it but he kissed me and I was just like ‘wow, Lucas’ has a really warm tongue’ which is kind of a weird thing but he really does.” Daniel smiles brightly again, downs his drink. “Oh man, maybe we should get you and him together, you’ve got the floppy-haired, angry-about-Formula-1 thing going on.”

Jean-Eric can’t resist a laugh at that, through the panic that hadn’t totally subsided under the current of Daniel’s babble. 

“You do have a nice arse.” Daniel helpfully pinches it as he brushes past Jean-Eric, making him nearly drop his drink in surprise at the sharp physical contact while he's having a (mild, for his scale but nonetheless) mental health crisis. 

Daniel pauses on his journey to the bar, still somewhat too close to Jean-Eric, “Oh we should totally set you up with Mitch! Evans, we were in GP3 - he's  _ tiny  _ it would look so cute cus you're like, a million feet tall.”

Abt’s grin is so delighted with himself for having this thought that Jean-Eric is beginning to realise he may have made a mistake here only in the sense that he was hoping for a sleazy blow job not a personal matchmaking service. But also it's weirdly pleasant to have someone kind of care about him even in this limited, intrusive way so he can't bring himself to make the German  stop. 

He think he remembers who Evans is, from the Red Bull days - another antipodean might be a step too far currently and if he wants short he's fairly sure he could convince Sam into bed again. Still, it'd probably freak Daniel out, so not worth writing off entirely. 

He wanders off through the thinning crowd, nodding at current and former team staff and husbands, wives, nieces and nephews, girlfriends and extremely good male friends who share hotel rooms on the team bookings. It’s a weird world - flopping down into a chair he lets go of the brief anxiety-flare from earlier - Daniel won’t say shit and even if he did, no fucker really cares around here.

As if to demonstrate his point, Ant and Robin are on one of the loungers, Robin half sprawled on Ant and they could almost be playing, just being physical with each other as part of a rivalry. But Robin’s fingers are under the hem of Ant’s shirt, his head tucked into the crook of Ant’s neck and Ant is holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, tipsy and reverent in the way he’s stroking an unsteady hand down the Dutchman’s spine. 

They’re the even worse kept Red Bull Junior Team secret, just never quite made it to anywhere prominent enough for anyone to really care. And, to be fair, there is something very wholesome about the way Ant presses his nose into Robin’s hair, smile half-hidden by brown fuzz, that he feels himself and Daniel perhaps never projected. 

Flopping back into the plush cushioning of the bench he’s on, he digs his phone out and tries not to screw up the autocorrect too badly, not bothering to switch to an English keyboard.  _ “Hey, race sucked. Watching Ant and Robin cuddling and trying not to miss you as much as I do. Hope the engine sucked less.” _

He hits send still holding his breath and throws the phone down on the couch. He shouldn’t be staring at Frijns and Da Costa but it’s irresistible, watching Robin shift to put his hands on Ant’s hipbones, pinning him as Ant’s hands come up to Robin’s face and guide their mouths together, hot and intimate. He can’t see Robin’s face but Ant is smiling into the kiss, blissfully entranced.

He doesn’t feel sad, exactly but definitely introspective - lost in his own thoughts as he sees them turn it into playfighting, Ant rolling over Robin and making them both fall off the lounger in a tangle of mock-outraged limbs. Safely hidden behind the seat, he has absolutely no doubt they’re engaged in some fairly heavy petting - Robin’s hands had been roaming the waistline of Ant’s jeans with serious intent. 

Jean-Eric isn’t jealous - he’s sure they have their own problems and in any case, he’s had bigger chances than either of them. He can’t really imagine them having sex, so much as just cuddling each other but then maybe he just shouldn’t be thinking about that, he’s sure people thought the same thing about him and Daniel when they were dorky teenagers.

But god, they really did used to fuck a lot. The delight of discovering the person you’re trying to convince to have the most possible sex with you is trying to convince you of the same thing is a beautiful and precious time, even if neither of them was that good at getting each other off for awhile. The first time Daniel had been inside him had been awkward as hell and to be honest, the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth times hadn’t gone that much better but there’d been an intimacy to working it out together, to seeing the very first play of the new sensations across each other’s faces.

Daniel was an enthusiastically straightforward lover, with absolutely no regard for grooming situations or cleanliness - it’d led to a few incidents of removing Jean-Eric’s pubes from his braces before Jev realised he should probably just trim. But then Jev hadn’t really got the hang of his gag reflex for ages so he was fairly grateful that Daniel never seemed perturbed by him just having had to run to the bathroom and wonder if he was going to be sick for a few minutes.

The thing was, getting all their stumbling first attempts out of the way with each other meant they could be so much less self-conscious, so much  _ filthier  _ with each other. Would Jean-Eric lick his own come out of anyone else’s arse? Probably not, not least because there has to be a fairly minimum standard of of trust involved for that on any number of levels but also he wouldn’t even dare. 

But making Daniel squirm and beg and finally letting him come with Jev’s tongue up his arse, open and desperate, was one of his favourite sex things ever. Maybe right up there with when Dan had picked him up, 2014-skinny and sad, pushed him against the railing of the balcony in Bahrain and made love to Jean-Eric in the dry heat of the desert night air, halfway hanging over the precipiece of the railing so he was forced to cling to Daniel to stop himself falling and to trust that he’d support him.

He’d been well past caring if anyone found out by then, recklessness beyond gone but this was  _ dangerous  _ and fuck but isn’t that what they both love? Between thrust and counter-thrust and sweaty hands slipping on Daniel’s shoulders and his back and the constant feeling that he might fall, that his legs might slip from around Daniel’s waist and then it’d be eight floors to an undignified, naked, broken end he’d felt literally insane with it, like Daniel was a madness he had to anchor to himself.

Love like vertigo had always seemed a cliche’d metaphor - love had been more like teamwork, like endless logistics and discovery, like the one solid thing in a life surrounded by furiously moving parts. Maybe because it had always felt like building something with Daniel and this was the tipping point of also being able to tear it down, the fact that they could be a finite road suddenly true in a way they’d never entertained. 

Daniel’s French had always been shit but he’d whispered  _ “Je t’aime”  _ and “ _ je t’adore” and  _ “ _ je te veux toujours _ ” every time Jean-Eric’s fingers slipped and he clung more desperately, trying to sob English back as their bodies slid together and he had to trust they wouldn’t fall apart.

When his orgasm had hit, vulnerability tearing down every shred of sensory inhibition he’d ever had, he’d thought he might pass out - panicked for a second that Daniel would come as well and drop him over the edge, the fear somehow heightening rather than dimming the pleasure. He’d come back to himself with his head against Daniel’s chest, the Australian still hard inside him and Daniel had just clutched them together, carried Jean-Eric back inside, finished with him laid out on the bed, Daniel kissing him in a way that made him feel dazed, like the confused seconds after a shunt.

He’d never felt more certain - Daniel loved him, without a single question, his own emotional skittishness about it utterly drowned out. Lying on the bed after, lazily kissing and holding each other, he’d been thinking about coming out - about the idea he could kiss Daniel on the podium, of a beautiful private ceremony and no matter what happened, always this. They’d settled against each other, Jean-Eric blissed out and feeling secure, sure, about this one thing.

Daniel had spooned up against him, curled against Jean-Eric’s side with one arm splayed across his chest, sweaty curls leaning against his neck. He remembers this bit in vivid detail because it had been one of the happiest moments of his life, this stupid boy he loves in his arms and them both soaked in the effort that had gone into fucking each others brains out, Daniel’s dark skin shining with sweat when he flexed the muscles of his arm, stretching. 

He’d giggled slightly, nose nudging against Jean-Eric’s neck and snorted, “Fuck man, you’re heavier than Jemma.” 

Even thinking about it made him feel the lurch, as though he had dropped from that railing. He sips at his beer and lets a wave of sadness wash over him, not really over Daniel as much as how much of a state he’d been in by that point - he’d just nodded and pulled Daniel closer, let him press kisses against Jean-Eric’s neck and fall asleep gently, sated and content that he’d blown Jean-Eric’s mind with a move he’d learnt.

Jev had waited a few days to send the “ _ we need to talk”  _ text and after that it was just a series of irrevocable events to get to an actual breakup. To lying in his hotel room on his own for far too much of the rest of the season, furious at himself for not at least being able to just stick it out until the end, to not make this more miserable than it has to be.

Which was how he’d ended up furiously screwing his teenage teammate one night, his own annoyance at the situation only enhanced by the fact Dany clearly had no intention of staying, resisting Jean-Eric’s attempt at cuddling afterwards and scuttling off to his own room, visibly plagued about something much more worrying than anything Jev might do. He’d felt bad about it for weeks, for himself and for Daniil when they’d all been at some sponsor thing and he’d seen the Russian looking slightly haunted around Carlos.

Still, that was all in the past now. And he’s suddenly got a dehydration headache, the buzz from the beer building unpleasantly between his eyes, making him pinch the bridge of his nose and blink a few times like he’s almost about to cry. 

“Same.” Sam sits down next to him, looking tired and upset but friendly. Jev decides not to ask what it is, having caught Bruno at the bar with a tall blonde woman out of the corner of his eye and put several things together when he’d seen Sam with an uncharacteristic glass of bourbon, earlier. 

Not that Sam was much for heartbreak so maybe he was just annoyed and looking to blow off, frustrated that wouldn’t involve any actual blowing. Jev moves up, gives his teammate more space and Sam takes the opportunity to lean into him, not exactly snuggling so much as barging his way up against Jev’s chest. 

“Right, well, let’s just forget this one eh?” Jean-Eric isn’t sure if he means the manly hugging thing or the weekend. “Oh also, what’s all this shit about you leaving? It’s not been  _ that  _ awkward, we can always have a cuddle if it’d make you feel better.”

Jev snorts, “It’s not you, it’s-”

“Jean-Eric Vergne, if you say ‘it’s me’ I will drag you to the nearest fuckin’ Hot Topic by your Moncler fuckin’ scarf and I will dress you as the emo teenager you are.” Sam pokes him in the chest to emphasise that this is a real and present threat.

He gets the feeling Sam is taking care of him and like Abt earlier, he doesn’t mind. Sam takes care of everyone and he kind of needs it, right now. 

Sam kind of shoves him with his shoulder, “I was hoping you’d stay. Ah well.”

Jean-Eric feels moved to put his arm around Sam a little, tug him closer. The night air is starting to cool and he’s feeling wistful - it would’ve been nice to want to stay, too. Sam’s a good teammate and he likes the team, in theory, it’s just… everything.

“Oh god, I can’t look at that, that’s too cute.” Sam nods towards the terrace, where a visibly ruffled Ant is leading Robin onto the decking and pointing up at something in the night sky. 

Jev’s heart suddenly aches very badly, for so many things. He pulls Sam closer again and is only a little bit surprised when the smaller man climbs onto his lap, straddles him for a hug where they both lean against each other, no intent more than support for a few moments. He realises he’s not that far off crying and tries to will away the sting across his cheekbones that says there’s an imminent risk of making an idiot of himself. 

Sam is warm and nice to hold, though, humming tunelessly against his neck. He lets his eyes roam over scruffy blonde hair and feels small and stupid that he couldn’t have been smart enough to fall in love with someone like his current teammate, instead of throwing it all away on the inevitable heartbreak of the F1 machine. 

Sam sits back eventually, so they can finish their drinks but he doesn’t get off Jev’s lap until the bar throws them out, Jean-Eric feeling like a prom date when he puts his arm round Sam as they walk past Bruno to leave. 

He's lying alone in bed before he realises he must have left his phone on the lounger, rolling over habitually to plug it in when he notices he doesn’t have it. The bar don’t, either, the next day and he decides to use it as an excuse for an upgrade he’d been trying to tell himself he didn’t need.

It isn’t until he’s on the plane and is halfway through enjoying fiddling with all the settings and trying to get the stupid iCloud to sync on the dodgy in-flight WiFi when he realises his text messages haven’t carried over and he has no idea if Daniel ever replied. 

He distracts himself from the anxiety with the discovery his luggage hasn’t come with him and he has more immediate pants-related problems than whether his ex-boyfriend is still interested in getting in them. Besides, it’s his home race and over a month until he sees Daniel again and he’s got plenty of shit to be getting on with.

Paris is special - the team’s second home, his country and it’s just enough motivation to stop himself thinking of everything else first. He spends a week in the gym, in the simulator, in getting his head down instead of giving it. Losing his phone feels like a weirdly freeing experience, distractions and conversations neatly interrupted without feeling any pressure to restart them.

He’s not renewing the Ferrari contract. If he was offered it, which he’s not going to be but this way he’s made the decision himself anyway. He’s done with pathetically hanging around in exchange for a few days of playing a computer game with a car he’s never going to drive and red makes his skin look blotchy.

Decision made and podium achieved, he proceeds to get very, very drunk on excellent champagne. Daniel would hate it. And probably that Jean-Eric has given up on F1 but he feels so good, so freed and the fizz is a rush of victory on his tongue. 

“You are so cute when you're drunk,” Simona is laughing fondly at him, glowing with alcohol herself and clearly a bit giggly. 

“This is only getting started, I intend to drink a lot more of this.” He gestures at her with his glass and she moves closer to clink their drinks together. “Sante.”

“It is very good, I don't always bother with this but it's rude not to go to a champagne party.” He's pleased to have an accomplice suddenly - Simona is perfectly wicked and looks in the mood to cause (mild, non-sponsor-offending) chaos. 

“Robin and Ant have already fucked off to screw, unbelievable. It's like I've got some superpower for turning my teammates gay.”

Jean-Eric looks at her for a moment because that sounds like an invitation and he knows he's not the worst looking driver but he'd always assumed Simona wasn't all that interested in men. She's smiling at him, though, slightly flushed and there's a kind of plea not to embarrass her in her expression. 

It's been awhile since he had sex with a woman, although his exes bar Daniel all were. And Simona has something of a Daniel-esque appeal, blunt and funny. 

“We need to see how much more we can drink before we leave - also the olive things, they are delicious.” He feels a little nervous suddenly, running his fingertips very lightly down her arm as a sort of test that he's got the right idea. 

“You better still be able to get it up when you're drunk.” She's laughing as she steps forward into his arms, one hand tapping at his chest in a warning and it's so direct he can't suppress an ugly snort of laughter that makes her smirk. 

“For the record, yes.” He bends down to murmur it into her ear and is pleased at the way it makes her shiver. 

“This is because we're in Paris and I haven't had sex for months, by the way, not because I'm secretly in love with you.” Simona looks competitive, as though this is going to be a gloriously filthy, basic hookup and he's suddenly  _ really  _ into the idea of seeing how many times he can make her come. 

“That honour is for Nick, no?” She rolls her eyes elaborately and presses a little closer, reaches round to grope his arse and push them together. 

“I'll be honest, you just look like you can probably give head and Sebastian is busy.” He's confused for a moment, recent oral encounters with another Sebastian too close to the front of his mind, before he realises Simona means Buemi, which is an interesting thought that makes him a little strangely jealous. 

Well, he's handsome enough and yes he can give head actually so he bends down to brush his lips over her jawline and murmur “I am going to lick you until you come so hard you scream,” ending with a quick kiss. “But first, more champagne.”

“Oh, this was an  _ excellent  _ idea - you get the drinks, I'm going to take my bra off.” She touches his jaw and leans upward to kiss him, their noses rubbing as their lips move against each other. There's a trace of gloss on her lips and she tastes of sweet, cold champagne - the first person he's kissed in quite some time who hasn't had stubble, some fresh perfume wafting lightly off her hair. 

By the time she pulls back he's entirely forgotten what she just said and is embarrassed to realise he's got his hands on her hips, almost possessively pulling her to him. Simona doesn't do this - they all knew she was off limits and he's been as consciously trying not to fancy her as he does with the straight guys but looking down at her now, he's a little unsteady. Right, yes, she said go to the bar. And something else? 

Jean-Eric decides he must have misheard that last bit when his head clears enough to get a bottle uncorked. 

He's pleased - and just a very little overwhelmed because he's been doing quite well lately but this is quite a power hookup and he doesn't want to seem like a fumbling teenage boy - to discover she wasn't joking, her plain black dress outlining taut nipples. He's French, give him a break, the provencale look is hot - he's slightly hoping she has armpit hair. 

She immediately pushes him into a booth and he's slightly relieved to realise he doesn't need to drive this. Two of the media team are at the other side of the small table and Simona immediately starts chatting with them while stroking her fingers up his leg. 

It escalates, every drink a new level of them touching each other. He feels like he's won when he manages to get his hand up her dress and stroke his fingertips against her - surprisingly, lacy - underwear but she immediately responds with a hand down the back of his jeans and a finger playing down his crack. Fuck, yes. 

Eventually he can't take it, with her sitting on his lap and tweaking the almost painfully hard nubs of his nipples through his shirt “I want to take you home.”

She gives him a mocking look “One more glass of champagne and then I'm doing anything to you.”

He's about to complain that that's not how the phrase goes but he also suspects that is indeed how it's going to work. By the time they fall into a taxi she's got his shirt halfway off, neckline torn and looks delighted by how disarrayed his hair is. And he's rucked her dress so badly he can get his hands over the perfect, hard curve of her thighs, tanned and smoothly gorgeous and he wants to  _ lick.  _

They make out like teenagers on the back seat of the car and the hotel elevator, hands everywhere on each other. He has to take a slightly steadying breath while she opens the room door and he tries to resist the urge to rub his cock against her arse through their clothes. 

“Please tell me that was not a lie about you giving head.” she's pulling her dress off already and he takes a moment to appreciate how fucking hot Simona is, a fantasy of taut muscle and the curves of womanhood. 

“I will tell you between your legs,” he pushes her gently, eagerly to get her to sit on the bed so he can kneel in front of her and go straight to teasing his tongue along the seam of her underwear, getting a delighted gasp in response. He wants to eat her so badly he's salivating, mouth as wet as he hopes he's about to get her. 

Jean-Eric knows he's good at giving head - it's one of the elements of sex that rewards a slightly thoughtful approach, a steady teasing to work out what someone wants, how much pressure and stimulation they need, which gear it's best to take that corner in. He’s not 100% sure he's not going to suck at any actual fucking - it's been really quite a while since he tried to make a woman come with his dick but his mouth he's much more certain with. 

He licks everywhere he can reach without taking her knickers off, musky scent and the slight taste of salt to her skin immersing him completely as his tongue traces patterns so  _ nearly  _ where she wants it. He can't stop a wave of smugness within the arousal when she arches her back slightly and reaches down to shove her own pants aside when he kisses over her clit through them. 

“Oh fuck, you are good,” He dips his tongue between her wet folds and licks a stripe all the way along, teasing upwards to her clit, the taste as addictive as the champagne. He doesn't think he's going to make her tremble - he's not idiot enough to think he can do what a corner at 300 kilometres an hour doesn't - but it's very satisfying when she spreads her legs more, wriggling against him for a better angle. 

“Better than Buemi?” he can't resist asking, lapping his tongue broadly over her as punctuation. 

“Mmm, we'll see” and he knows she's playing him but well, challenge accepted. He sucks on her clit as he plays fingers through her folds, deliberately licking wetly because lubrication is a wonderful thing and he loves when girls get completely soaked. His nose is pressing into the soft hair that trails down to her pussy and it’s not that sucking cock isn’t fun but this is  _ the best. _

“Stop fucking around and finger me,” Simona sounds pleased, giggly and he smiles against her, pushes one finger into her soaking cunt and has to palm himself through his pants because fuck  _ yes  _ he wants to be inside her, to feel tight wet heat around his dick and try to make her come. 

Which he ought to do now, really, crooking his finger to rub upwards and make her gasp as he carries on licking her clit, juices heavy on his tongue. He'd missed this, fucking women, what with all the gay angst but he's pretty sure he'd happily do this again as he feels her clench and flutter around his finger and his mouth is flooded as her thighs tense. 

“Oh god, yes.” She flops back for a minute before propping herself on her elbows to look down at him, “Get naked.”

He scrambles to get his shirt off, kicking off his shoes while she lazily strips off the last of her soaked underwear. “God, you're really  _ fit.” _

He’s so pleased she didn't say “pretty” or “fey, angsty fucker” he blushes while he's taking his jeans off. He crawls over her up the bed to kiss her, sharing her own taste and she licks into his mouth like she's hungry for him. 

He's slightly surprised when Simona flips him onto his back but also she'd probably be the top of any list of “drivers he definitely couldn't take in a fight” so he tries to not panic when she pins him down. 

“Oh shit, condom.” she looks down at him regretfully, pinning his wrists above his head and for a second he thinks it's game over because his are in his own hotel but she just grinds against him slightly and hops up. “One second.”

She returns from the bathroom with the correct foil packet and he's profoundly relieved because otherwise he'd probably have to make himself come by humping the carpet or something before he left, dick achingly hard. Simona looks incredible above him, strong thighs framing his hips, feet tucked beneath his legs to get her better leverage when she rolls the condom on and sinks down on him. 

Jev’s moan is  _ broken  _ \- he's so desperate for more he doesn't know how to articulate it, drags her down to a kiss where he can feel her smiling wickedly at how much of a mess he is already. Every shift of her hips feels incredible and he wants to fuck her until she comes, thrusting up in a way that makes her moan and pant and murmur encouragement to him. 

Simona's body is pressed flush against his, her breasts rubbing over his chest and her hair fallen like a curtain around his face, silky and sensual where it brushes over his skin. He can't resist palming her arse, rubbing his hands over her and feeling every perfect line. 

She feels as athletic as Sam against him, as lithe and small, powerful - and as keen to make it fun, their kisses more a play fight. When she reaches back to rub his balls he retaliates by giving into the temptation to palm her tits like he's 15 and just discovered them, makes her laugh breathlessly into his mouth while he’s teasing sensitive skin, wishing he’d had a chance to suck and lick at her pert nipples.

Maybe it's that he hasn't had sex with a woman for so long or that she's so strong, battling him for control of it in a fight to see who can make the other pant the most but he's  _ really  _ into it. “God, fuck, you're incredible.”

Simona surprises him by looking pleased by the compliment, blushing slightly and grinding down on him hard - but then confidence can be faked as a self-protection method and he hopes he doesn't have the sort of reputation that wouldn't let her trust him but men in general definitely do. Jev pulls her down for a kiss again, tries to show his appreciation of how good it feels being under and inside her. 

Jev’s caught between chasing his own pleasure in tight wetness and wanting to draw more whines out of her, make Simona claw at his shoulders and ride him harder, biting his lips. He trails a hand down her, pinching at her nipples and stroking the sensitive skin over her abs to rub his fingers over her drenched pubes to her clit, trying to push her over the edge before he falls. 

She gasps “yes” and also some garbled French and German and he smirks into her mouth, pushes his fingers deeper to where they’re joined as he palms upwards at her for the friction she needs. Touching his own dick where they’re sliding together is so hot he can’t hold back anymore, moves his hips more forcefully and for a few hard thrusts it's a perfect, brutal rhythm before she clenches, he feels his balls twinge and everything is just incredibly good for thirty seconds or so. 

He nuzzles her hair, feeling slightly vulnerable and hoping he did a decent job, trying to stop Simona getting off him while he feels a few final curls of pleasure, shuddering a little and wetly playing his fingertips over her clit to draw it out for her. Simona kisses him again - which is nice, people haven't been kissing him much - and then pulls back to look at him, her hands against his cheekbones. 

For a second he thinks she's going to tell him he's pretty, which he might not even mind right now but instead she shifts off his dick, strokes his cheek fondly and says “I'm going to sit on your face” and Buemi can get  _ fucked  _ he is totally winning this. 

Jean-Eric falls asleep against her, tipsy and exhausted, with her arm around him. Of course it's stupid to feel better admitting sex makes him a little needy with a woman but he can barely handle dealing with the contents of his own head let alone thousands of years of heteronormativity. Simona is warm and doesn’t seem to mind him cuddling, shifting sleepily into a spooning position so he can curl around her and bury his face in her hair, breathing her in as he slips into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She's in the shower already when he wakes, which is a shame as he'd been slightly hoping for another round, morning erection pressed against the mattress where she'd been. He feels somewhat fuzzy but the wonderful thing about champagne is avoiding the cheap booze headache, rubbing his face on the sheets to shamelessly breathe in the smell of Simona quite enough to placate his hangover.

He's not sure if he ought to leave while she's in the bathroom - Simona had been quite clear about this being a hookup of convenience not something she had any interest in pursuing but he wants to be as emphatic that he respects that, respects  _ her.  _ He knows what it's like being marginalised, to some extent and he doesn't want her to be worried about what he'll say, spends fifteen minutes angsting about what the right thing to do is before she re-emerges and the choice is taken away from him, still sprawling naked in the bed.

Simona looks beautiful, fresh out the shower with dripping hair, wrapped in the hotel towel as she bends down to kiss him chastely. “It's a great shower, I highly recommend it.”

She’s right, it is - and when he catches her quite shamelessly watching him while drying her hair he feels nothing but satisfaction at a job clearly well done. This feels less weird and sleazy than a normal one night stand, his usual insecurities buried beneath just feeling really good about having had great sex.

He ends up borrowing a t-shirt from her when he sees the state of his from the night before - there's the walk of shame and looking like you're in a 90s boyband video. He’s quietly pleased to have an excuse to talk to her again once he’s washed it - Jev is good at hookups, slightly less good at conversing with his peers like a normal person and he doesn’t want this to be awkward.

Simona stops him for a kiss in the doorway, looking slightly devious, “Robin’s mind is going to blow when he finds out you're not gay.”

He’s stunned for a minute - he'd assumed he must never tell anyone under pain of death and he thinks that's probably still the case but Simona can own her own reputation. He's smiling genuinely when he says “Oh yes, only half” with a semi-apologetic shrug. 

She gives him a shrewd look, “Well, with that tongue if you ever find a boy who wants to play I could be into it.”

He has a weird burst of thinking how his life would be so much easier if he married Simona and woke up every day to her hair tickling his nose and the smell of her shampoo and maybe having filthy sex, like, all the time. Jean-Eric suspects it wouldn't do anything for  _ her  _ life having some needy 25 year old rubbing his dick on her when she's trying to sleep, though, so decides to repress the urge to ask her to come for breakfast with him. 

Jev ends up room servicing himself on the balcony of his own room, looking out across Paris and feeling very calm about things. He almost decides to ruin it for himself by texting Daniel but manages to control the urge - it’s still another race before he has to see him - and he does  _ have  _ to see him in Monaco, it’s not like there’s anywhere in the Principality to hide.

Besides, everything at Red Bull seems even less well than usual and he has no idea whether to text Daniil commiserations or possibly call Daniel and ends up doing nothing because he needs to not think about the whole thing. 

Berlin is fine. Well, no, it’s not fine at all, except by averages - pole is a high, losing four places in the race sucks shit. He doesn’t want to party afterwards, he wants to lick his wounds and sulk. He’d been seriously hungry for a win, Paris had re-ignited the thirst for podium champagne and to end up fifth is just shitty.

And then it’s Monaco, which is not the mood he wanted to head to the Principality to be on shitty media duty in. Two days in the simulator beforehand is an annoying distraction from getting on with the Formula E negotiations he really needs to move forward with and he’s fed up of the sight of anyone with a Ferrari logo on them. 

The drive into Monte Carlo feels like approaching doom, despite the Mediterranean sun. His itinerary is a constant whirl of being wheeled out with special guests so the real drivers can get on with thing and he can stoically not be allowed any of the champagne on a superyacht because there’s some vague rumor he in theory could possibly have to drive. 

“ _ This place is stupid. Good luck x” -  _ he doesn’t expect a reply from Daniel, Jean-Eric knows entirely how busy Red Bull keep you in Monaco and also that Dan is suddenly facing a precipice Jean-Eric is  _ very  _ familiar with and which leaves no space for anything else, if you're going to not get dropped over it. 

He let's himself have some bitter thoughts about how he'd still made time for Daniel and that was probably what finished him off but honestly he's so  _ done  _ with this entire shitshow. Getting wheeled out to impress celebrities because  _ look, we have so many Formula 1 drivers we keep this sad French one as a pet _ is just demeaning. 

His heart swells when Daniel takes pole - even as he’s seething with jealousy at not getting to drive in the Principality. It’s a special race, it somehow hurts more to miss it than the others, feeling useless and sidelined on a superyacht under an umbrella being forced to describe an experience he’s desperately bereft of not getting again.

He’s tempted to try to find Daniel, feeling happy enough to see him on pole that he’d be fine with getting on his knees and showing him how fond he still is. Instead he’d ended up drinking endless glasses of champagne that never seemed to quite get him drunk enough before being bunged off to the team hotel - not, he noted, actually in Monaco; that’s for  _ real  _ drivers.

Race day is a rainy horrorshow - he knows in theory he’s meant to give a shit that Raikkonen crashes but he can’t concentrate on anything other than the fact Dan loses the pole and he’s so furious he can’t breathe, wants to run down the pitlane and punch Christian himself, barely resisting the urge to scream as he watches the disastrous pitstop. The injustice is too much - Red Bull can be as fucked up as they like but this is just  _ amateur  _ and they’ve always been so professional at cruelty.

Jean-Eric anxiously hangs by the podium ceremony, entirely abandoning his scarlet duties because he couldn’t give a shit less about Paris Hilton and he desperately needs Daniel to know he’s there, that Jean-Eric is waiting for him. Daniel looks so  _ broken  _ \- it’s horrible.

He smiles and nods at Lewis, doesn’t even have to control a blush over the number of times he’s thought about Hamilton  _ like that  _ over the last few weeks, he’s so distracted by Daniel. He’s not seen that expression since they sat down and he watched the love of his fucking life try to calmly process that Jean-Eric was breaking up with him. Daniel doesn’t really understand negative emotions, they jar so utterly with his disposition that he doesn’t have a way of dealing with them, can’t process the feeling any way and even if it wasn’t exposed-nerve-raw right now he’d have it sloshing around him like dirty bathwater that won’t drain.

Jean-Eric’s eyes meet Daniel’s and he sees the slight shock in the Australian’s expression, notices the tiny nod as though Daniel is agreeing something more with himself than Jean-Eric. Jev hopes the team realise there is no way on earth he’s doing anything else for them today - they’ve got Kimi if they need a racing driver to put on a boat - because he needs to be with Daniel right now.

He pushes his way to the door of the press conference shack, shoving photographers and journalists not quite high-ranking enough to be allowed in the room aside with a degree of malice he’d normally reserve for people with energy drink logos on them. He needs Daniel, before the team get to him, before he’s whisked into the press pen, before anything - Jean-Eric  _ needs  _ to touch him, to feel that spark they always had. 

They can’t kiss, even though he wants nothing more than to crush their mouths together, share breath, release everything in Daniel the way he always could. He expects them to barely touch, for Daniel to be immediately swept away from him - instead, he finds himself pulled in, through the door by his sleeve almost on top of a frantic Red Bull PR he can’t remember the name of.

“He asked for you,” is all Jean-Eric gets told before he’s virtually shoved into Daniel and hears a door click closed behind him. 

“Shut up” is all Daniel says before he’s not even sure who launches themself at who - all he knows is he’s got Daniel’s tongue down his throat, he’s gripping Daniel's face and there are fingers digging painfully into his own shoulders. 

Daniel grunts into the kiss, pushes them roughly together and Jean-Eric can feel the fragility in him, that just-post-race exhaustion that means Daniel can’t be anything but rough, no finesse left. He feels wrung out himself, the familiarity of being in each others’ arms overwhelming, the feel of Daniel’s body against his, of sweaty thermals and grimy overalls and every horrible racing smell so familiar and jarring, with him in jeans and sneakers.

Daniel kisses him like he’s drowning, like Jean-Eric is his source of oxygen. “Fuck - come back to mine, fuck this.”

Jean-Eric looks him in the eye for a measured second. They’ve barely touched in two years and now his Ferrari sweater is soaked in Daniel’s sweat and champagne, Daniel’s saliva wet on his lips and he feels wild, unbalanced. He’s fantasised about this so often - of some reason to reconcile, to get over himself about it and accept he might be second-best to Dan but he hasn’t got the other now and Jean-Eric’s not sure he even likes being the only thing, suddenly.

Daniel closes his eyes, looking exhausted, “I wanna be inside you so bad, Jev. Fuck.”

Against some kind of warning better judgement he feels blood rush south so fast it’s probably dangerous. “Yes - anything. Yes.”

Daniel palms him roughly through his jeans, grabs him and drags him out, stopping every few places to mash their mouths together again as though he literally cannot breathe without. Jean-Eric can’t work out why he feels like this is a terrible idea - or maybe not even a terrible idea, just something that’s going to be terrible.

He realises much too late that they're heading for the Energy Station, somewhere even Daniel's hands on him can't distract him from his dislike of. He doesn't want to think this through too much - he knows he's being comfort to Daniel and probably shouldn't because a few disparate texts don't mean this isn't going to break his heart but he isn't prepared to stop it, either because he can't let Daniel feel  _ worse.  _

He gives Dan a questioning look that gets ignored in favour of grabbing him and quite deliberately, passionately tonguing into his mouth by the door of the motor home. Fuck. It's what he'd kind of always wanted and an oncoming panic attack at the same time. 

Daniel tastes, smells, feels familiar - he's as beautiful as always, dull, post-downpour light making his eyes look golden. Jean-Eric closes his, tries to not think about where they're doing it and just try to convey how much every attempt at distancing himself, getting over Daniel, has failed and his heart still aches for him almost as much as his dick does. 

“Missed you,” Daniel grabs roughly at him, keeping their faces close in an embrace and Jean-Eric refuses to open his eyes, presses his face against Daniel’s shoulder. If Christian’s standing there glaring at them then he can, “God, Jev, I’ve missed you so much.”

A tiny part of Jean-Eric’s heart ignites because it sounds like Daniel means it and he's so desperate for it to be true. But also he can feel eyes boring into the back of his neck and it's quite possible Daniel isn't lying without meaning it only for him. 

He can’t help turning round, despite the fact Daniel’s trying to gaze into his eyes and when he sees Max he has this sudden revelation that he’s being played. He’s always been being played. He doesn’t even know what over, this time but the erection that’s pressing painfully against his jeans feels shameful because for fuck’s  _ sake,  _ no good was ever going to come of this.

Jean-Eric’s cheeks are burning when he looks back to Daniel. “I should go.”

He sees something quite a lot like realising he’s fucked up in the background of Daniel’s expression, “Dude - Jev, I really have missed you.”

Jean-Eric isn’t sure if he’s sad that he’s not blinking away tears when he says “I know” and steps forward to hug Daniel, pulls them tight against each other and tries not to let the heartbreak totally consume him. This is it - it had been it, years ago and it’s the same now and he’s not sure Daniel quite understands but at least his own mind is set.

It’s not whether Daniel loves him or not - or even whether Jean-Eric loves him, it’s that there are some tables that are so stacked against you you shouldn’t deal yourself into them. It’s that there are some risks that you get habitually used to and it seems normalised that you’re getting hurt. It’s that he’s not this desperate, in the end; he owes it to Sam and Loic and Simona and  _ his fucking self  _ not to be so pathetic as to pretend he doesn’t know this is a  _ terrible  _ idea.

When he leaves Daniel’s apartment the next morning, unshowered and with a hickey on his collarbone, he texts him to say he’s got the train. Tells him when he gets on his flight. He feels numb and strange but not unpleasant - he’d had fun, of sorts, the previous night - Daniel does know how to get him off, still and it had been nice to have that closeness, to share a beer on the sofa and fall asleep next to each other. 

Daniel gives head just as badly as he ever has and Jean-Eric still doesn’t really know what to do when the Australian comes inside him and he’s not quite there yet, although coming on Daniel’s face was quite fun, Simona having given him ideas. And now he needs to find his hotel and his car and his fucking  _ life  _ because the one thing he knows is that he can’t go back now. 

Two weeks later, ink fresh on his Techneetah contract, he gets a strange text from Lewis that seems almost like a cryptic attempt at sympathy -  _ “Im sorry man, it might get better or they might not but you’ll be alright. L x” _

He’s coming out of the gym when he reads it, wet hair dripping onto his new (ish, now) phone. The odds are not in his favour, he feels, of things somehow magically resolving themselves - there’s a reason he’s prone to anxiety and it’s that his life has a tendency towards, if not the  _ worst possible  _ thing then some things that are substantially sub-ideal happening. 

But Jean-Eric has stuff to do, right now. And whether he’s lucky or not, there’s no choice but to roll the dice - he doesn’t want to do it alone, never did but he thinks he probably can, now. Or at least, will have to and he’s not so pathetic that he can’t at least stand up for himself that much.

After London, Sam cuddled against his arm in a slightly champagne-sticky mess, he deletes Daniel’s number. Life - and somewhat inevitably, his slutty tendencies, Sam rewarding him with a particularly expert blow job - actually will go on, no matter what he feels like he’s giving up; there’s no face to be lost, on some things.

At testing he gets a message from an unknown number, just saying “ _ Congrats man, I always knew you were fast.” _

 


End file.
